


Fragment in the Choir

by booktick



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s06e05 War of Nerves, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, or is it????, sort of but not quite yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booktick/pseuds/booktick
Summary: Sidney wasn't about to have the Father question his holy work, nor would he inform him of his interest. It would most likely do better to just write it down and let the man continue to call him friend.





	Fragment in the Choir

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of this franchise.
> 
> A/N: My second attempt at writing Sidney. I did my best and I rather like how it turned out??? I just really love Sidney Freedman.

* * *

Sidney had the journal open on the makeshift desk. His wrist was starting to ache from his long he dictated his thoughts upon paper. The world seemed to drift away in moments like these, and it was just him and his words. The scratching of pencil in his ear, filling it up so not even a helicopter's whirring could sneak in. He would, on occasion, begin to lean in close towards the journal as his lamp remained lit near by.

Such was the way without electricity in a makeshift swamp. He was glad to be given the space while Hunnicutt and Pierce were at surgery. Typically, he would have been in there but not this afternoon. He had seen enough bloodshed and broken bodies and minds for the day. Tomorrow, he would start a new. For now, he wrote. He had spent the days listening to the words of others so much that he barely had the time or energy to do the same for his own. It was a recipe he didn't have all the ingredients for.

He could barely see the words, all fuzzy in the eye from overdoing it perhaps. He rubbed at his eye with the butt of his palm, pressing in until it hurt some. The sleep didn't completely leave him, only giving him some more time at his task at hand. Even psychiatrists grew weary. War did not help such matters, only intensified. 

Sidney looked back down at the words he had written so far. It all seemed far too much and far too little at the same time. So much different than writing to Sigmund. He never intended to send the letter, just a little mind stretch really. If he could get the words on paper, it could be the start of progressing forward instead of staying in the past--as disorganized as it was, it still wasn't so black and white as good and bad memories, it was chaotic as war was. And he had the nerve to go fall for a priest in the middle of it. Just his luck, huh? 

He still needed to figure out the introduction. He had started mid thought after all. How does one address another in a confession? The Father must have taken a bunch of confessions while in Korea. He let his eyes trail back up to the top of the letter, where a name did not reside. If anyone were to read this, it'd be clear who he spoke of anyway. But it just felt...wrong not to have one. He'd quickly add it then get back to the rest. His pencil pressed to the paper and he began to write.

~~Dear Francis,~~

No, he couldn't start it that way. Too soon. Too familiar for them and out of place. He had called the man by his name before though that was on loose situations and ones the Father would most likely have forgotten by now or chosen to forget. The man of the cloth, of all the people he was writing about. Humor would be found it in it if Sidney wasn't so...lost.

It wasn't so easy it would seem. A barrel of flounder was right up Sidney's alley at the moment. He would step right and the whole world leaned left, he would try and go right and the world was suddenly falling left. His voice was being smothered the more he thought and the more he thought, the more he was winding up. He really didn't want his top to fall off. Klinger would be wounded that he wasn't there for such an event. Who knows? Maybe he'd toss it into the bonfire the camp was currently making? Man found fire and fire ended man, or whatever the idea was. 

His fingers glided over the rest of the words in his letter, remembering each one. Sidney wasn't about to have the Father question his  holy work, nor would he inform him of his interest. It would most likely do better to just write it down and let the man continue to call him friend. He wouldn't have to, as people said, rock the boat. The Father would head back home and work with orphans and Sidney would return home to his son. It was as simple as that. As one, two and three. He tried for another introduction once again.

~~Dear Father,~~

Too formal.

He couldn't very well say ' _Dear Heart'_ , though it would not be too difficult to say the Father had a big one. What Francis Mulcahy had done for the children here? What Francis Mulcahy did for  _everyone_? It would be a perfect description of him. Sidney still erased the words anyway, leaving the letter with a smudged address at the top. It wasn't like Francis would be reading this anytime soon.

Sidney yawned, the butt of his palm rubbed at his eyes again. The sleep would eventually take him. Just a few more paragraphs, okay, maybe lines. Enough lines for at least one paragraph. He still had a few more things that needed to be said. Written, not spoken. That was the agreement, no? The agreement between he, himself and Sidney. 

Alright, review. Review is a good plan. If he reviewed, he could move on. He wasn't sure why it was so difficult. He had written Sigmund several times without issue. And Francis wasn't going to read this. Then again, Francis wasn't Sigmund. He wasn't in love with Sigmund. Hell, maybe he was. He wasn't so sure of himself nowadays. Everything landed where it landed and all he could do was hold on for the ride.

He looked over his words for the hundredth it felt like, another attempt to organize at least a portion of his thoughts. He swallowed hard and, by some mere stroke of confidence, murmured the words under his breath. Never loud enough that someone might hear, especially with the potential Colonel Potter that might come looking for him. He wondered if Sherman had ever loved anything more than the 4077th and his wife. Had Sherman Potter been in a familiar situation? Maybe he'd have a better chance at that thinking with Hunnicutt and Pierce instead.

But his words...his own written before him. They seemed so out of place. He was the person came to for advice and treatment and help. He was a person though. Just like the rest of them. He was as flawed as them, as nerve wrecked and as scattered it would seem. He had thought this already. He was becoming repetitive. It was a pattern that needed to be broken...or, at least, altered to some degree.

_'Dear Friend,_

Friend, off to a good start. Not too formal but not overly familiar. This was not a Hawkeye letter after all. Sidney ran his thumb over his lips as he followed the rest of the words after the introduction:

_'I am writing this as a way of organization I suppose. Lately my thoughts have not been on my own shelf, instead, have been spread thin among the rubble of war. I fear I've lost my touch on more than one occasion. So much so that not even Sigmund could cushion the fall. Perhaps I get ahead of myself, Father. When the chips fall, I often find myself turning around and there you are.'_

Sidney was no Whitman but even his words reached for him. In fact, he began to smile because of them. His mind drifting to all the times he had turned around at a poker game to find a silver cross staring back at him and a toothy grin from the boy of Philadelphia. He would have to visit some day. Surely the name Francis Mulcahy had to be known there with how much light came from the man. He could warm the whole 4077th during Winter in Korea with Father Mulcahy's smile. He had to press a palm against his cheek, elbow digging into his thigh to try and hide his smile. Nearly hurt from how much the image in his head tickled him.  

He cleared his throat and continued to read his un-letter: 

_'Like a guiding light in the tunnel, you reach out when others feel they've lost their voice. You are too often critical of your short comings--aren't we all? You've got a mean left hook--which I do mean physically and verbally I'm afraid. Take some comfort in that. We all try to survive somehow with the devices left to us. We all attempt to find a way to rub out the burn left in all the misery and the loud. Some more than others._

_I'm not quite sure when it happened, and who many can be that precise, but my insides seem restless around you, my friend. Like I said, I come here so often it feels like home, a home away from home away from home. And I turn around and there you are, with a hand on my shoulder and a kind word even in the thick of the grim. I find myself in a tent, palms wet with the concern that I might miss sight of you. Hawkeye has had to jolt me back to reality on numerous occasions. It seems I spend as much time in my head as I do in others'. You're good people and I'm better to have known you. Philadelphia should know what an individual they house._

_I'm sure I'll write a few more of these. Perhaps it'll be a baker's dozen'_

The words stopped there, falling off just as his letter was releasing the pressure in his tires. It would seem, like he had been doing this entire time, lost his focus. His thoughts still somewhat scattered, he sighed and shut the journal. The pencil placed beside it in silence. He would write more when it came to him. If he could just find an outlet, it'd better. He was so sure. He pulled away from the desk, standing as he picked up the journal. Sidney sat down on the cot with a groan. His hands came together, cupping the journal. Hiis head hung low as he slouched. He hadn't expected the Father and the war to blur together so much.

He had been so concerned with his patients, with Francis, and with the rest of the 4077th he hadn't even considered the toll it was taking on him. He still wasn't so sure he had the right to complain. He had done his part. He had tried. He always tried so  _damn_ hard. When would it be enough? When could he just...write again? Sigmund or not, he missed writing and going to sleep and that being that. It would seem that the non-washable guilt that transpired here could consume even Sidney Freedman.

He reached back and slipped his journal under his pillow. Just as he did so, he heard a knock. He barely had enough time to pull away from his pillow. A familiar silver cross and toothy grin greeted his eyes when he lifted his head. He blinked a few times just to make sure he wasn't mistaken. He had so many of the 4077th come through the VIP tent in a day that he couldn't be a hundred percent on it. But, sure as rain, it was the person of interest from his letter, hidden away in more ways than one, under his pillow. 

The light found Sidney as he stood up to greet Francis Mulcahy: "Oh, hi, Father."


End file.
